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ANNOUNCEMENT 


To be published: 

January 28th, 1923 

“The Flower of Stars” 

March 25th 

“In God’s Garden” 

May 25th 

“The Bride’s Girdle” 


Later 

“The Booke of the Words” 
“The New Little Boy” 

“The Road of the Winds” 
“The Mirror of Hell” 


PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR 

“Price $1.50 each 

P. O. Box 3008: U St. Station 
Washington, D. C. 

FES 17 1323 J 

V * " 


jFlmuer of #tarfi 


— by— 

©pal Wfitflfg / 

4 * 





PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR, JANUARY, 1923 
P. O. Box 3008: U St. Station 
Washington, D. C. 


TS3545 

.H <cZ5 Fs 

CopY 


Copyright 1923 
By Katherine Sullivan 
Entered at Stationer’s Hall 
All Rights Reserved 

including that of translation into other languages 
including the French. 


FEB i 7 1823 v' 


Me Service, Printers 
Washington, D. C. 

©C1A69C593 





(ftfltttetttsi 


Page 

The Flowers’ Holding. 9 

Beauty Attends . 10 

The Little Room. 10 

All Things Live. 11 

Night’s Rosary . 12 

Children of Thought. 13 

Words Woman Holds in Her Heart. 15 

She Is Dead. 16 

The End of a Sapphire Day. 17 

The Little Crooked Gray Boulder. 18 

The Weary Hope. 19 

The Clan of the Lichens. 19 

Beauty . 20 

As Others Are. 20 

Where Freedom? . 21 

Night and the Little Failures.24 

The Little Comet. 25 

Brother Gray Owl.27 

The Words . 31 

Dumb Words . 32 

Trees Reverent . 33 

Beauty and Man’s Scarlet Desire. 33 

























Saint Claire’s Violet Hood and the Swallows. 35 

Know Joy . 36 

The Great Ones and the Little Ones With For-Get- 

Nots’ Brother . 37 

Last Night . 40 

The New Little Boy. 41 

A recording of how Heaven comes 
To Meet the Children who die— 

A day in God’s Garden with one of them. 

The Prayer Wind . 56 

The Cantata of the Stars. 57 

God’s Beauty Enthroned. 64 

The Mirror of Hell. 65 

Epilogue . 91 

Even Now . 93 

Memory’s Blue Flower . 95 














ufy? Mttnm of 


There be Stars in the sky 
And Stars in the heart of man 
And Stars in the soul of a child 
And Stars in the eyes of woman 

This be a little booke 

Of a flowering of these Stars 
That are lamps to man’s way 



©Iff Momtt of j$tara 


A Little Offering 
To Qod 
Because 

He Made the World So Beautiful 
and 

To Father and Mother 
Because 

They Showed the Way 



THE FLOWER’S HOLDING 


God gives the flowers 
Something to hold every day. 

Some days, it’s the tears of mothers. 
Sometimes, it’s the years that men call fail- 
ures. 

Sometimes, it’s the fragrance of lost words. 
Sometimes, it is part of the symphony 
God lets it come to tune 
In the heart of little flowers. 

Sometimes, it’s the dreams 
For sleepy children’s eyes. 

God knows the flowers 
Will make them heaven-wise. 

Sometimes, it’s just a song of blue. 
Sometimes, it’s just a thought of you. 


9 


BEAUTY ATTENDS 


Beauty attends 
The birthing of Man, 

And she attends his death. 

The white altar fires 
Of her high hopes 
Are then a little dimmed. 

Sometimes, they are almost gone out. 

THE LITTLE ROOM 

In Man’s heart is a little room. 

He has named it 
Oblivion 

And things are ranged along its wall 
That he does not wish 
To think about. 

Every time that he pushes something in 
there 

He closes the door very tightly. 

But in hours when he is weary, 

In the hours that walk around some mid¬ 
nights 

When high fires have burned 
To a low flicker 

Then the little door swings on its hinges. 

And no thing 

Will make it stay closed 

All of the time. 


10 


When he is near death 

All the Velvet-footed Wanderers in there 

Join the throng around his bed, 

“We will not die,” they whisper 
To one another. 

While Beauty waits with drawn lips, 

And dry eyes. 

But, there is heard 

The patter of a little sad rain 

In her heart’s garden 

Where some little flower buds 

That were once thinking of the sun 

Will never open 

Because man keeps a little room 
Of oblivion in his soul. 


ALL THINGS LIVE 

All Things live; 

The innermost thoughts 
Of a Man’s soul 
Walk the highway 
Of the Universe, 

And are seen 
By all the pilgrims, 

Who have gone before. 


11 


NIGHT’S ROSARY 

Night walks a pilgrim 
Along the pathway of the stars. 

Her fine ears filled 
With the murmurings 
Of man’s little sorrows. 

She wears a white rose in her girdle. 

On sapphires is strung 
Her rosary, without its cross. 

Its beads are 

The anguishes of men 

And the emptiness of woman’s hope. 

She tells them, hour by hour, 

Until they are become 
Emeralds at dawn, 

Glimmering with faith 
As a field in the new spring. 

The anguishes are become 
A cross of pearl, 

So Night folds her rosary 
In the morning. 


CHILDREN OF THOUGHT 


The Morning Winds caress with their 
hands the flowers come to bud in the gar¬ 
den of the blue desert. They talk in low 
starry tones until the flowers open and they 
behold the little children sleeping there. 

These are children born of the thoughts 
of man and they are clothed with his faith. 
It so happens that some have no robing but 
the petals of the flower that encloses them. 
This has become so because some men have 
no faith in their thoughts. 

In appeal for their gowning Morning ex¬ 
plained to Dawn on the Desert, 4 ‘These are 
the Children of Thought. They help to make 
the joy songs of the world.” 

“I will clothe them,” said Faith, “with the 
silk of children’s laughter.” 

“And I will make for them little velvet 
gowns of the memories of maidens on their 
wedding days,” said Recollection. 

“I will give them rose-petal handkerchiefs 
to put in their pockets,” promised the Mother 
of All the Roses. 

“I will give them little bags of the fra¬ 
grance of Hope,” said the Baby Brother of 


13 


all the For-get-me-nots, who goes to the 
sky every day to bring back blue for their 
petals. 

“We will give them prayer books from our 
petals,” said the stately Lilies who knew all 
God’s thoughts and how man’s soul was 
brother to the star. 

This was the day of their gowning—the 
little Children of Thought. 

The Passing of Days saw them playing 
with the sands of the blue desert, making joy 
songs of little grains of sand that are the 
sufferings in a man’s life through the days 
of his long pilgrimage. 


14 


WORDS WOMAN HOLDS IN HER HEART. 

What are the words 
Woman holds in her heart? 

Wings of the dawning 
And feet of the night, 

Mantle of the morning, 

Girdle of the twilight. 

A white flute and a blue star. 

An old way of thinking. 

And the song 

Of a brook that has come 

A long ways from the hills. 

The rose of a child’s garden. 

The boat of a child’s souk 
The shore of man’s rest. 




15 


SHE IS DEAD 

“She is dead/’ they said 

And they gathered up the things 

Of her days. 

Life's little spindle, 

Her gentle ways, 

The comforting words 
That were left a wall 
About their fears 
To keep them from climbing 
Into future years. 

The hopes of her pleasing, 

Her little vigil hours, 

The chest of her maiden dreams, 

The flowers of a gladder faith, 

The lavender of old tears. 

The linen of her fingers weaving 

The garments for her children's souls 

From words writ in the Holy booke. 

And the memory 

Or strong caressing hands 

That they had always found 

Understanding. 

Afterwards, in one old chest 
In the room she had slept in, 

They found the gentle joys 
Of her waiting years— 

The petals of the hope^ 

At her children's birthing. 


THE END OF A SAPPHIRE DAY 

At the long ending 
Of a sapphire day 
The fields were silvered 
With slipping light 
While Time was washing 
The net of Day 
In a turquoise sea 
Under a little new moon. 

There was a woven water glimmering 

Where the net was tired 

And Twilight had drawn 

Threads for its remaking 

From the aureoled opalescence 

Of the strong heart of man. 

God, going for His evening walk, saw 
And caught in His hand 
The light that passeth on. 

For the net was agleam 
With the sheen 
Of the ropes of pearl 
Woven of the strands 
Of the Sorrow of Sorrows— 

Woman's travail. 


17 


THE LITTLE CROOKED GRAY 
BOULDER 


The Little Crooked Gray Boulder dwelt in 
God’s Garden. He had no remembering of 
who brought him there. But the White 
Swallow knew that he came from an old coun¬ 
try where all the fires were gone out. 

One time God burned up man’s desire and 
an old world died. 

The Little Crooked Gray Boulder had a 
dim remembering, but mostly he loved the 
sky so forgetting came to him of his early 
home. Only his heart sang a deep quiet joy 
and thumped a great deal. That was be¬ 
cause all the molecules of his being were the 
little joys God had gathered up in that old 
world. The gathering was before its death- 
ing. 

After that there was no more gathering 
for the old world became a breath on the 
passing wind and went the pathway of other 
old worlds. They are become an unseen river 
in the sky. Sometimes man feels the current 
of this river when he is near death. It sings 
an old song, for it has known the end. 


18 


THE WEARY HOPE 


The harp of stars sings 
On the rim of the world 
While its brethren stars 
Through space are hurled. 

The sea is restless, 

The shore cliffs high, 

And as man’s thought passes by, 

It is played into a song 
By this harp of stars. 

So the weary hopes of old mothers 
Pass into the years, a symphony; 
Allegro in the soul of man, 

Andante in the eyes of woman, 

Con moto in the web of time. 

THE CLAN OF THE LICHENS 
We will be gray 

For the dumbness of old things, 
And we will be 

Without form that can be measured 
As are old longings. 

And we will be like petals 
As are new yearnings. 

And we will be 

Gray with a little green 

As are old hopes 

That live on with a fore-seeing 

And a dream. 


19 


And we will cling 
That no wind may part us 
As old friends. 

We will be a symbol 
Of things grown old 
And the beauty that yet is 
When youth glory sleeps. 

BEAUTY 

Beauty is a thing not held with hands; 
A plant in the heart of man, 

The garden of children's laughter, 

A quiet pool in the eyes of woman. 

The calling that leads man far, 

A whispering on the wind, 

A flute under the white star, 

The high urge of man’s desire, 

The white flame in the red fire. 


AS OTHERS ARE 

If we must be as others are, 

Let us take the beauty of others’ lives 
As the star of the hour. 

Let us make a little nose-gay 
Of the buds of their joys, 

With the fragrance of their sorrows 
And the understanding of their hearts. 


20 


WHERE FREEDOM? 

When most bound, most free 
In one's heart, and a garden. 

Free on the hills 

And a city within four walls. 

A kingdom in a room, 

A song on the wind. 

The listening heart 
That finds a part 
In all earth's musings. 

A little time, a little day, 

A weary way 
And a long road. 

Where Freedom ? 

It whirls with the snow 
In the winds on the mountain top, 
It beats in the heart of earth, 
Flashes in the lightning 
And battles in the thunder. 

Out in the fields, 

There's a breath of Freedom 
On the winds, 

There's her touch 

In the rustle of the leaves. 

And on high seas 

There's a vanishing footprint. 

In the running wave. 

But these are not the essences. 


21 


When other things we would be doing 
And toil falls to our lot 
Then Freedom comes to us. 

At such a time she carries 
No star in her sceptre or crown; 

But there is 

A comforting rustle in her gown, 

As she walks round us 
And comes to sitting down. 


She comes 

From where nightly yonder stars 
Dream our dreams for us. 

She comes—to the heart of man. 

From the field without to the field within 
She brings the thought fragrance 

Of other world and distant star flowers 
To begin the incense fires 
In the long hall of the mind— 

Where come to march the w r akeful glories 
Of ancient sleeping years. 


She marches there another valiant host. 
She counts their energetic footsteps 
To the ticking of the Future’s minutes. 
She marshals them on into the soul 
A joyous crowd, 

Where listening, they wait their calling. 


22 


Her voice is low. 

To quickening faith her challenge thrills 
While Holy light the Souks cathedral fills. 
And all its dim aisles know 
The footfall of the radiant quietness. 

And they, her marshalled forces, 

They of the tall brotherhood, 

They of the glowing wills, 

In answering 

Sing out their anthems high that rise 
Like incense mist around the gothic arches, 
Until the bells of the sleeping years, 
Through the vaulted silences, 

Ring back in answering; 

And thus their chorus loud in unison 

Removes the souks shroud 

And overpowers 

The empty hours 

With living song 

“FREEDOM IS WORK.” 


23 


NIGHT AND THE LITTLE FAILURES 

Night took up the web of life 
And wove a star thereon 
Of amethyst and silver glimmering. 

From her rosary she drew a pearl 
And gave its holding to this star 
Lest coldness come to her heart 
With forgetting of sorrow's old tears 
In the midst of unfolding years. 

Also, Night took from her girdle, a rose 
And caught in its petals the hour glimmer¬ 
ing 

That this star might be a flower 
To shed its fragrance on earth fields. 

So wove she into beauty 
The little failures of man, 

But his successes 
She cast to earth again. 


24 


THE LITTLE COMET 


A Tale for Children and Taller Ones 

There is a little comet 

That whirls around the world. 

Sometimes, 

He is seen nearing earth 
At the graylight hour of seven. 

But, mostly, he is seen 

Dancing and prancing up and down 

The high hall of heaven. 

He goeth quickly, 

Yet may be always with us. 

He sparkles a song 
That is like a ribbon 
With a jingle ball on it. 

Have you heard him sing? 

“I’m tired of being just a comet— 

I’d like to find a home. 

I can be in a lot of places 
At one time, 

Only people don’t know it. 

“My tail can be very big with light 
And I’d like to go to bed at night.” 


25 


“I'm so weary and lonely 
Most people think me 
A comet only, 

I do not want to roam 
I wish I had a home 
Where 

I could spread my tail our right 
And make all the house light 
And the children’s eyes bright. 

I have had no home for many years, 

I had to go out 

From the Garden of Eden 

When Adam and Eve went. 

If you want me, call me, 

I am called 'Content' 

I'll come with patter light 
At latter light, 

Spreading my name 

On my tail behind me 

CONTENT WITH LITTLE THINGS.'' 


26 


BROTHER GRAY OWL 


Nobody knew how Brother Gray Owl got 
into heaven—but there he was—and he sat 
by the throne at the feet of God; and the 
little bells jingled. 

In the Garden the Anemones said he had 
been there longer than Pine Tree. The White 
Swallow recalled that Brother Gray Owl came 
again in the third year after God had 
brought Little Crooked Gray Boulder to the 
Garden. There were those who supposed he 
sat on the top of the world next star to Little 
Crooked Gray Boulder’s home. 

They all knew he fluffed up his feathers in 
a nice way when God sat down on the throne. 
It was very apparent that there was un¬ 
derstanding between God and the little Gray 
Owl. Sometimes when God discoursed to 
Saint John and Saint Peter and Saint Paul, 
Brother Gray Owl would perch on his knee. 
At such times it was to be observed that he 
was looked at quizzically by Saint John’s 
Eagle, who always perched on Saint John’s 
shoulder, while God discoursed. 

And the Little Demure Violet, who 
bloomed by God’s chair that was His throne, 
would watch Brother Gray Owl and Saint 
John’s Eagle. She had intuitive feelings that 
deep knowledge was with Brother Gray Owl 


27 


because she knew, being near the throne, 
that sometimes in the night he was sent by 
God on a long journey. 

And just before he soared away Brother 
Gray Owl would say, "To Who! To Who!” 
And the Demure Little Violet would catch 
her breath in wonderment and wait. But 
Drowsiness, coming by with his cap on, al¬ 
ways put her sleepy gown on before Brother 
Gray Owl was come back in the morning. 
Then when she was come to waking up, she 
would flutter all her violet ruffles with self¬ 
annoyance because she had not yet learned 
"To Who! To Who!” he went. 

Every one knew that as a matter af fact 
when he came back from these long jour- 
neyings there was always a song in Brother 
Gray Owl’s heart. This was the causing of 
his breast feathers to become warm. Also 
that glad feeling inside was what made them 
♦ this fluffiness and warmness a comforting. 
f so fluffy. Little shy things found in all 
There were many sharers in this knowl¬ 
edge. Chief among those who knew it best 
was Rover Rabbit, who always bobbed his 
ears up to a noon angle whenever there was 
a doubt about the true existence of this com¬ 
forting feeling. Of course, no one ever doubt¬ 
ed but the newcomers; and that only because 
they had not come to understanding. 


28 


At such times Rover Rabbit was chief 
among explainers. None could do it better, 
and punctuate their utterances in such a nice 
way as he did with his ears; and moreover, 
he well knew what he was talking about. 

The two Little Bow-legged Pine Trees said 
that knowledge was come to Rover Rabbit in 
this wise: 

One night, instead of running down the 
path to Saint Francis, he had stayed over 
long in the white clover field where the an¬ 
gels were making snowflakes. When he ar¬ 
rived at the Garden’s end in graylight time 
his nose was cold. And Saint Francis was 
not there—a little hour being past since he 
had embarked on a comet’s tail for a neigh¬ 
bor star world with his arms full of lambs 
that he was taking to play in a field there 
with children new-come from earth. 

Rabbit was disconsolate at his not finding 
the good saint. Little feelings of disappoint¬ 
ment perched on his ears because he had not 
been there to go to that new field. All this 
was the direct cause of his nose becoming no 
warmer. Having come to this estate he 
thought that he would tell his feelings to 
Brother Gray Owl, who usually wore his ear 
bells at that hour that he might be found 
quickly. 


29 


He was perched on a bump of moss at the 
other end of the Garden. There Rabbit told 
him all about it. While nestling near the 
glad heart he felt his nose growing warm and 
he listened to the tinkles of Brother Gray 
Owl’s ear bells—a nice sound like little cow 
bells in a field of clover. Upon which thought 
Rabit shortly went to sleep and his dream 
was of three nice little green leaves in 
bunches. His nose quivered with fragrance 
of clover blossoms. So Gray Owl perceiving 
by the pleasantness of his dreaming face that 
his nose was warm, left the little rover to his 
clover resting. And the Hollyhocks who stay 
awake at night heard the tinkling of the 
earhells as he sailed away in the darkness 
to the other side of the Garden. 

Later, in the hour nearest to the first after 
middle night time, the White Swallow passed 
the Hollyhocks so wide awake there in the 
Garden. In his passing he observed their 
meditations. Then he paused the third of a 
moment to say: 

“It is written in the Book, also the Dove 
who brought the Olive Branch back' to Noah, 
has told me that Brother Gray Owl in olden 
time was called Minerva’s Owl—and was to 
be seen sometimes perched on the shoulder 
of the tall fair ladye when she walked in 
those Elysian fields.” 


30 


THE WORDS. 


Little Words that wear silk dresses 
And go to tea-parties: 

“How darling!” “How perfectly dear!” 
“You really did? . . . Marvelous!” 

When they cjme away 

They take off their little silk mittens 

And fold up their polk-bonnets. 

Then they are pansies and violets. 

And some carry fragrance 
Of mignonette in their pockets. 

Out in the world their cousins. 

Tall Words that rise up like towers. 
Slender Words ticking the hours. 

Feather Words that mount seeds 
In the flower pods. 

Weather Words that count beads 
On the hour rods. 

Merry Words that muse. 

Tarry Words that lose. 

Cloudy words that send a rain. 

Roudy Words that tend a pain. 

Linnet Words that seek a rare clime. 
Minute Words that keep a fair time. 
Morning Words that comb theflair high. 
Adorning Words that roam the air nigh. 
Wing Words that sing the little loves. 
Spring Words that bring the little doves. 


31 


Mother Words that string the lyre. 
Brother Words that bring the fire. 

Willow Words that bind the nest. 

Pillow Words that find a rest. 

Long Words that bird the sleep. 

Song V/ords that herd the sheep. 

And when the fair “Good Night” is said 
Some Words climb the stair 
And rhyme in turn to bed. 

The rest return 
Along the Road of Arden 
Back into the garden. 

A page from The Booke of Words. 

DUMB WORDS 

There are flowers that bloom 
With velvet petal wings quivering 
Around the border of Evening’s gown. 

These are the dumb words 
That a woman holds in her heart 
And cannot speak. 

With the gathering of days 
And the passing of years, 

Their wings have grown 

From vivid white to gray’s dullness; 

Yet they flutter in the twilight 
And their strength 
Is not quite gone out. 


32 


TREES REVERENT 

The Trees said, 

“We will be reverent.” 

The Host of Flowers 
Bowed their heads, 

“We will be reverent 
Of the Year's little silences.” 

Only Man forgot 
And the sight of Beauty 
Grew dim with old tears; 
Remembering the years 
And God's dream of Man 
As He made him 
With eyes to see 
And soul to understand 
The symphonies and beauty 
That walks beside him 
All his days 
And is a sword 
And a sun 

To his soul's journeying. 

BEAUTY AND MAN'S SCARLET DESIRE 

When there is battle 
In the soul of man 
And flash of fire 
Between the sword of Beauty 
And Man's Scarlet Desire, 

And Beauty triumphs— 


33 


Then from the soul of Man 

Ascends a mist of incense of white fire. 

That kindles a tongue of flame 

In the waiting hands 

Of the Lilies’ Vestal Maiden, Hope, 

Who puts it on an old altar 
In the temple hall of high heaven. 

Many of these fires are gone out to-day, 
“That is my reaping,” 

Proudly boasts Man’s Scarlet Desire, 

Who would thrust open, with a spear, 
The doors of all the rooms 
Of a man’s soul 

That, he, Desire, might have control 
And quench the fire in the sun. 

When, as oftentimes, Man’s Scarlet Desire 
Walks with Triumph through these halls, 
There come after them flitting shadows 
That are like mice in the attic. 

And Grave Fears go about 

Pulling down the curtains to the windows 

Until Man’s Soul is a dim place 

With a weighted veiling of Time’s lace 

That Heaven calls care. 


34 


SAINT CLAIRE’S VIOLET HOOD 
AND THE SWALLOWS. 

“Saint Claire has no hood/’ said the Vio¬ 
let Buds in God’s Garden. 

“But it is not yet come—our blooming- 
time,” answered the other Violets. 

“But God wants her to bring home the 
Swallows to-morrow,” said the Two Little 
Pine Trees that were bow-legged because 
they didn’t want to grow away from their 
friend, the Little Crooked Gray Boulder. 

“And her hair will get dew-damp,” re¬ 
marked the Wolf of Saint Francis, who 
liked to be near the Violet People. And he 
rubbed his nose with his paw for emphasis 
of what he had said. 

“Let us make her a hood of buds,” said 
the Most Little Violet among all the Violets 
who dwell in God’s Garden. 

And the thought was become a little white 
joy wind to their faces, while all said with 
deep breathing, “And our purples will cover 
this hood for Saint Claire with little silk nobs 
like unto the gray velvet bumps on Pussy 
Willow sticks by which Saint Francis doth 
keep count of his Rabbits and Lambs.” 

So Saint Claire brought the Swallows 
home; and some of the weary brown ones 
she carried in her violet hood. 


35 


To-day we see them betimes with sheen 
of violet. These are the great, great grand¬ 
children of Swallows, who became tired when 
Saint Claire wore her purple hood. They 
are kindred to Violet Buds and carry under 
their wings to another country the wish of 
Violet People for little children to keep a 
pearl bowl of joy in a purple box under their 
pillow to fringe their eyelashes with when 
they wake up in the morning. 

KNOW JOY 


Know Joy! 

That is come from the tallness of trees 
And the little flowers that grow hidden. 

Know Joy! 

That is come from the stillness 
When your heart wants to listen 

Know Joy! 

That is come from work 
When one is weary 
And work must be done. 


36 


HOW THE BROTHER OF THE FOR-GET- 
ME-NOTS WAS ATTIRED FOR HIS 
LONG JOURNEYINGS ALONG 
THE VARYING ROADS OF 
MEMORY. 

One day the Great Ones were met together 
with the Little Ones on the hillside. In their 
midst sat the Baby Brother of all the For¬ 
get-me-nots. Slightly tall little North 
Winds peeked over the cliff at this gathering. 
And their cool breathing was a remainder to 
those in the circle of why they had been 
called together. 

“We will bring the linen for his undergar¬ 
ments,” timidly offered the youngest of the 
White Morning Glory Sisters, who stood with 
their arms around the little Clover people. 
She spoke for them all. 

“And I will knit him silk and wool stock¬ 
ings of summer moongleams on still water 
pools and winter wool of mullein leaves,” said 
the Grandmother of the Larkspurs with 
grave noddings from where she sat on a 
gray rock cushioned thin with lichens. She 


37 


did not look up as she spoke for she was 
finishing the toe of the West Wind's stock¬ 
ing that she had brought to the meeting. 

“We will make sandles of our feathers,” 
said the Wings of the Morning, who were 
High People and loved the quiet ways of 
humble folk like the Grandmother of the 
Larkspurs. 

And yet the circle grew. The Aunts of 
the Seven Colors of the Rainbow were there 
to speak for the Day just passed, who, be¬ 
fore she became Yesterday, had gathered up 
in her hands the last rays of the Sun when 
he went over the hill to meet To-morrow in 
Japan. And she had left these in a little 
basket at the foot of their bridge, for the 
weaving of his suit. And Rain v/ith the help 
of the Sun’s Daughters, Susan and Jane, 
would weave it with song shuttles from these 
singing to-gether, over the railing of their 
bridge. 

The West Wind coming near said, “I will 
give him a music box to keep the Rainbow 
songs in for the building of bridges over the 
rivers that cross Memory’s highways.” 

And Faith, who had all the time been look¬ 
ing on, said, “I will give him a little candle 


38 


in his heart’s room because sometimes there 
are dark turnings along the road of Mem¬ 
ory.” 

“And I will put a singing feather in his 
cap,” said Laughter, who was an aureoled 
Ladye with a musicale rustle in her green taf¬ 
feta gown. 

“I will make him a little gray mantle,” 
said the Twilight, “and I will line it with the 
white swansdown of children’s dreams.” 

“I will give him a staff,” said the tall Pine 
Tree, “with a crook in its handle that he may 
hook a star and swing to Sleepyland when 
he grows tired.” 

“And I will wake him up in the morning,” 
said the Song Sparrow, who was always first 
to take his bath in the brook in God’s Garden 
at the rustle of Dawn’s wings when she 
peeped over the garden wall in the morning. 

In the time of the ceremonies when these 
clothes were being put on by the Great Ones, 
Song Sparrow stood near by with his head a 
little to one side. His thoughts were all to 
the thinking of how some day very soon he 
would be taking this Baby Brother of All 
the For-get-me-nots hopping from star to 


39 


star. That was the proper thing to do after 
one's bath in the morning. And one could 
always find one's way back home again for 
the Morning Prayers sang all together on 
the garden wall and one could hear them 
everywhere. 


LAST NIGHT 

The Wind wore her hair 
In two long dark braids 
Last night. 

They were more dark 
Than the petals 
Of the purplest pansies. 

She wore little stars intwining 
As though she had braided them in 
While thinking of you, 

Last night. 


40 


THE NEW LITTLE BOY 


To a mute house, 

Not different from many other houses 
That have geraniums in their windows, 

There had come in this graylight time 
A tall veiled person, 

Whom none among those waiting there saw. 
And he went out from the room. 

Only then they knew he had come and gone 
For the bed of the little visitor 
Was become very still. 

So was this house become dumb; 

One of many such in the land. 

Alone the little visitor saw, 

When they were well upon their way, 

The face of the tall one, 

Who had come for him. 

It was exceedingly fair. 

And being wrapped in his mantle was like 
Being in bed with Mother in the morning. 
And tho’ he was a tall person 
With far-seeing eyes, 

While close to his shoulder one could hear 
Song and laughter of children in his hair. 
And he had a way of holding one 
Like Mother’s arms, 

While they went quickly and quietly 
Along the pathway of the stars 


41 


Where a comet passed them by 
And they saw the borning of a star. 

Soon after, they met the Evening Prayers 
Out for a walk. 

And a little farther on 
They came to a gate 
Whereat the tall person knocked 
With a lily staff. 

And the gate opened and was become 
At starry mistiness. 

Only two stood where there had been a gate 
And the meeting of their sapphire wings 
Made an arch to go under. 

Their names were in their hands holding. 

One was a flower enfolding 

All the Year's hopes of TO-MORROW. 

There danced on her gown the shimmering 
Of river birch trees in new-leaf time. 

Her sister of the sapphire wings 
Wore little ivory slippers. 

Her gown of the soft haze of autumn 
Was girdled in with jade. 

Her hands holding was the gift of Memory, 
An alabastor jewel box, 

With her name on it 
“YESTERDAY." 

And their sapphire wings were meet 
An arch to the gateway of the Garden. 


42 


As the little boy came in, 

The eyes of Yesterday and To-morrow 
Met in a smile. 

“All things pass between,” 

Sang the Fountain. 

“After awhile, after awhile,” 

Sang the Mosses in the Garden. 

He didn't know 
What the Mosses meant, 

Tho’ the words were the same 
That Grandma had said 
When he wanted to run 
Like the other boys. 

And then he had so 

Wished to know 

What “after awhile” meant; 

But now he didn’t stop to find out 
Because he just felt 
For sure he could run. 

And the little boy slipped down 
From the arms of him 
Who had brought him. 

And they who watch there 

Saw the New Little Boy 

Running up and down in the Garden, 

Following after the brown Swallow birds, 

Who flew ahead, calling him to come on. 

And he thought they never could guess 

He had had infantile paralysis. 


43 


But he never did guess all the things 
Of their knowing. 

For their coming and going 

Was Sorrow’s measuring of her treasuring; 

In gratitude of their gathering 

Her every caress 

Had been the feathering 

Of their wings. 

All his first hour was so spent 
Just in running. 

It felt so good 

To lift one’s feet up separately 
And put them down in a quick way , 

Long steps apart. 

And so he came to where 
Were Saint John and his Eagle, 

Who showed him how to make a new kite 

That had a string on it 

Just like the pretty green kind 

That Mother took off packages 

When she unwrapped them. 

Then she would wind it 

On her pretty fingers 

And put it carefully away in the drawer 

That, in some way, Saint John knew about 

He felt that was certainly the place 
From where was brought to the Garden 
All the green string for the kites; 


44 


And that it was well his mother 
Had saved it 

When she unwrapped packages. 

So were his thoughts 

While he was kite-flying with Saint John. 
By and by 

Saint Mark, who had been 
Transcribing Holy Scriptures, 

Laid by his pen 

And patted his lion on the head, 

Saying that he would return shortly; 
But that now 

He must needs be upon his way 

To play marbles 

With the New Little Boy. 

And after three o’clock, 

God, going by for a walk with Saint Paul, 

Saw the New Little Boy 

And talked with him 

About the game of marbles 

And showed him where were 

The large building blocks, 

Made from the Tower of Babel 
And the Walls of Jericho, 

With which little boys build castles 
For their mothers; 

And all their glad thoughts 
Are windows there, 


45 


And every prayer 
Is a flower in the Garden. 

This is not a castle in the air, 

Nor high on a rock cleft, 

But a thought left 
A comforting for mothers, 

Who are bereft. 

So the New Little Boy 
Walked in the Garden with God. 

And listened and talked 

And liked the many little things; 

The words that had wings, 

The river that brings 

White sail boats 

Round a bend in the garden, 

Where a brook sings 
A running song 
About jumping over rocks 
All day long. 

And he was glad 
That he could run. 

So, thinking, on he ran 

Past where was a cave in the Garden 

And on through the rows and rows 

Of Foxgloves and Hollyhocks and Larkspurs 

To where was a hillside Garden. 

And there were people walking about 
Whose names he had heard Grandfather read 
Out of the Holy Booke: 


46 


Enoch, Ephraim, and Isaiah, 

Joseph, Hosea, and Hezekiah, 

Moses with his burning bush 

That was a conference of Scarlet Larkspurs, 

Miriam with Pharoah’s daughter, 

Rebecca and Isaac and Boaz, 

Noah with the Olive Branch Dove, 

Esther, Hagar, and Ishmael, 

Matthew, Luke, and Timothy, 

Jeremiah, Lazarus, and Martha, 

Abraham and Nicodemus, 

Mary, Ruth, and Dorcas, 

Also David and Jonathan. 

Some talked with one another 
And some only listened, 

And some were making songs 
And some were saying their prayers 
With the flowers, 

And some were building 
Little cities and tall big towers. 

Some were herding God’s little gold bees. 
Others, sitting near these, 

Were weaving the days of their life 

Into a mantle and gowning 

For the children of their children. 

And Beatrice smiled 
When the New Little Boy asked Dante 
Which was the way to Daniel 
That had a menagerie. 


47 


So they accompanied him. 

He returned another way 

With the Elder Brother of the River Nile, 

Who was a tall person 

Wearing a turquoise head-band 

With two hawk wings 

Of finest silver. 

From the well by Nazareth town 
That was come to the Garden 
With other things, 

The New Little Boy 

Went with Jesus’ Lamb another way. 

As they passed, 

The sight of Those Who Watch 
Was a little dimmed 
With old tears 

And the tenderness of waiting years, 

For all the Taller Ones there 
In the Garden, well knew 
Where the Lamb’s Shepherd 
And the Shepherd of all Lambs 
Walked daily on earth in Gethsemane 

There with strong men of anguished hearts 
But the Lamb knew another thing. 

He tried to tell the New Little Boy 
In his lamb way 
That once every day 

His Master returned, a child, to the Garden. 


48 


So they went on another way 
That led by a winding path 
Through various little hedges 
That were of lilac much taller 
Than one’s head, 

Just like in Mother’s garden. 

And this, he thought, 

Was the nicest place of all 

Because the air had such a nice feeling— 

All full of breathing of mother thoughts. 
And about in various chairs and on the grass 
Sat the Mothers 

Who had never had any children at all 
But the longing. 

And God opened wide the gates of the gar¬ 
den. 

Here they made hoods for children’s dreams 
Knowing them to be real things—a remem¬ 
bering of 

Where they have come from; 

And they weave into their garments again 
The thoughts of the garden. 

And they make also the gowns for the 
Hymns. 

And with feathers from the wings of Dream 
They make children’s caps, 

Such an one the New Little Boy 
Was given to wear on his entering. 


When he asked where was Jesus’ Mother, 

They looked at one another understanding^; 

For all the Garden knew 

Mary yet walked Calvary’s path 

In the lonely footsteps 

Of weary Mothers, 

Whose hearts have been sword-pierced. 
And the Trees and Grasses talked low 
Of those things 
Known only to Mothers. 

There was a waiting breath 
In the Garden 

And the Little Boy stood near, 

Wondering what it was all about. 

And the Lamb waited. 

“I will make him a scarf 
Of purple velvet pansies,” 

Said one of those Sweet Mothers, 

Who never had had any children. 

So the New Little Boy 
Joined the Symphony of the Violet Orchestra 
Which plays in front of the fountain 
When God wishes 
To make a new river. 

The Little Violet people 
Looked up to the New Boy 
And wished 


t>o 


That he were as small as they, 

Foil in the Garden of God 
Nobody wishes 
To be as others are 
Or for what others have; 

But all, and each one 

Of the legions there 

Wishes another had what he has 

Of joy of morning 

And music of God’s words 

When He discourses to Saint John 

With Brother Gray Owl on His knee. 

After one new river was made 
The angel Gabriel came by 
And the New Little Boy 
Thought he would follow him. 

And the angel perceiving him 
A little way off 
Returned to meet him. 

After they had gone on 
A little way 

The Angel Gabriel paused 
And perched him on his shoulder. 
They looked to Hie West, 

Then turned to the East. 

There they saw sitting 

Near the Sun’s fountain of quiet song 

The Little Mother of the Ganges, 


51 


Who had come to God’s Garden 
From a cave high in the Hymalaya moun¬ 
tains. 

And yet she wore as then 
Her snow mantle 
Clasped with a lily flower. 

And the Angel Gabriel 

Beheld how every ruby in her necklace 

Was with red fire glowing 

Like a star world to itself 

But with the tenderer glow 

Of a Mother’s heart 

When her Man Son 

Comes to the door. 

But the Little Boy saw only in these 

A string of blood drops 

From his Mother’s finger 

Where the mending needle had pricked it. 

Neither saw the slim radiant face 
Of the Little Mother of the Ganges, 

For that was bent above her work. 

Quickly to and fro 
Moved her moon hands 
Winding brook songs 
On God’s spindle. 

And her dark hair 
Moved in the wind 
Like bleating of lambs 


52 


On quiet evenings 

When they are near their mothers. 

The New Little Boy thought her hands 
A little like his Aunt Catherine’s hands 
When she was darning his white stockings 
That he wore on Sunday to church. 

He wondered 

If many other children in heaven 
Had blue stripes 
Around the tops of their stockings 
That they wore on Sunday— 

His mother had always kept his 
In a particular place. 

In the top dresser drawer. 

And on nights 

When he had been wakeful 

He had seen her put them away again 

With careful care 

While she was combing her hair. 

After graylight time 
In dark velvet time 
There were lit in the Garden 
The Lamps, these are 
God’s Laws— 

A light to the Garden 
And to the heart of Man. 

Then Saint Peter came strolling by. 
Under his arm he carried his flute 


53 


With which he makes five-pointed stars. 

He lifted the New Little Boy 
To a high place on the Garden Wall 
And there and then he explained 
How to make them, 

And the New Little Boy made 
A piece of one. 

Then he gladly tried again. 

And the tender-eyed Mother of Child Jesus 
Returned to the Garden again, 

Stood watching, near to him, 

While he played on Saint Peter's flute 
A crooked little star 
That went a crooked path, 

Like going downstairs 
Out into the sky. 

But it stopped from bouncing 

And came to rest 

A little west 

Of the mute house 

Where he had died on yesterday. 

He watched it 
And his eyes danced 
Like when he was brought in 
From watching the children play. 

He hoped his mother 
Would look out the window that night 
While she was combing her hair 
And see his little star. 


54 


It was full of the twinkles 
Of his new joy. 

And he wanted to tell her 

How happy he was 
With thinking of her in the Garden 
But he did not know, the Little Boy, 
That God had told Saint Peter 
To let him make a singing star 
To tell her so. 

Nightly it sings its lullaby 
To the west of the little house 
And the quiet Memories 
That walk in the house 
Hear it singing out there. 

While all things pass 
Between the sapphire wings 
Of Yesterday and To-morrow. 


55 


THE PRAYER WIND 


There was quiet in the garden, 

Save for the music 
From the harp of stars, 

When to its playing 
Came the Prayer Wind 
Wearing rose petal slippers 
And twining for-get-me-nots 
In her hair. 

There was quiet in the garden 
While the Prayer Wind 
Dropped her for-get-me-nots 
From twining in her hair. 

They fell to earth 
With the low sweet notes 
From the harp of stars. 

They gently drifted down 

And homes were gladder that day— 

Nobody knew why, only 

There were more blue-eyed children. 


THE CANTATA OF THE STARS 

This is a tale 
Of the measureless years 
Before the earth 
That we now live on 
Was come into being.; 

But God was very busy 
With the other worlds. 

Now in the beginning 
Music was with God, 

And Music dwelt 
In the heart of God. 

And all new things that He made, 

And all things of His making 
Were appointed a part; 

So that while yet He was creating 

Other worlds 

The Stars held a cantata 

In honor of this glory. 

Their pathways lay far apart. 

Their motion was to a symphony 
God thought in His mind 
One day, a little before. 

And His thought became 
Sound 

To the height of space that was 
And was not; 

To the width of time 

That was for all time—being Eternity. 


57 


So the stars moved on majestically 
Their own pathways. 

The Great Symphony 
Was born that day. 

All other Symphonies 
Are whirls—little whirls; 

Star eddies from these worlds 
In their revolutions. 

The Stars began their cantata 
In a small way that day. 

Two days passed 
And word of the cantata 
Came to Regulus of Leon 
Through a comet 
Who crossed his trail 
“Fll lay by my spear,” 

Said Regulus of Leon. 

And well he sang 
And high his tenor wild. 

The sky was purpled with force. 

The night had been mild. 

Now all colors leaped together— 
There was white fire. 

And several small stars 
Left their own orbits 
To follow Regulus of Leon. 

And three new small worlds 
Were hurled from one old star, 


Who rushed madly off 
Into space and darkness. 

Then came a lyre 
Of lavender stars— 

It was God 

Calling Regulus of Leon to halt. 
He knew Regulus' love of the lyre. 
So was his wild tenor 
A little tamed. 

Sheliak and Talitha, 

Alioth and Altair— 

All were singing there. 

Theta of Orion sang 
A rainbow song, 

Garnet, white and lilac 
All sparkling. 

Aldebaron’s base rang out 
A red flash down the heavens. 

Gaily Sirius rocked 
As he sang 

A far-white sparkle song. 

Antares sang great red songs 
That made sunsets on the clouds 
For a hundred thousand miles. 

Zeta of the Lyre had watched 
God make an emerald 
So she sang a green solo. 


59 


Spica sang blue out of violet 
And Betelgeux took up the red. 
Izar’s Little Sister 
Rode a sea-green horse 
A-gallop-a-trot, gallop-a-trot 
Adown the Milky Way 
Until her brother's orange song 
Called her back again 
To her own orbit. 

Leon Denebola’s Little Sister 

Sang a ruby song 

And he listened 

With his bluish mantle 

Drawn close about him 

As he smiled across the miles to her 

In the way Big Brothers do. 

And Rigel sent 

Majestic waves oi song 

That rolled on the voids of space. 

Arcturus and Capella 

Sang threads 

Of fire gold song 

For the foundation lines 

Of the loom of the universe 

While the flute of God 

Called the fartherest four to-gether, 

East and West and North and South, 

To begin their weaving 

Of the web of time. 


Nekkar and Tarazed and Mesartim 
Were singing; 

Altair and Mirzam and Almach, 

Algorab and Alphirk and Mirfak. 

And the heavens knew 

All the colors that ever were. 

Towers of blue flame rocked. 

Showers of green flame traveled past. 

Dots of white fire 

Made a lyre of dim thunder 

With a soft trembling. 

The Pleiades played on their flutes 

And marched throughout the Universe. 

They sang to sleep the little moons. 

And a long train 

Of timid little white stars 

Followed these Pleiades 

Like a hundred flock of sheep. 

The gentle songs they sang 
Wove the belts of Saturn. 

And God went walking daily; 

There were not yet then seven days, 
For Vega was rocking 
Time in his cradle 
With a blue mantle song. 

“The Universe is so vast/' 

Sang one great sun 
As he whirled past. 


61 


God, going for His evening walk, heard 
The song of his child fire bird 
Of the vast. 

And the flute of God breathed tenderly 
A sweet and low far-going song, 

Twas of the oneness of all things. 

And the vastness 
Beyond the fartherest spaces 
Was filled with the gentleness 
Of God’s flute song. 

And everywhere and all wheres 
The Brotherhood of the Stars 
Caught up the refrain and sang on 
Of UNITY. 

And the vastness listening 
Rose up in majesty; 

Then in the Soul of Man, 

Yet unclothed 

For its earth journeying, 

Was born the Ancient Yearning. 


CANTATA OF THE STARS 
EPILOGUE 

The Cantata of the Stars 
Lasted a trillion years, 

And many new worlds were begun— 
Among them, our earth. 

Then it was a little white altar flame 
In the high hall of Heaven, 

Born of the thought of God 
And the song of a star. 

By day, the Pleiades 
Were its Vestal Maidens; 

And through the long night before dawn 

It was shepherded 

By the Great Elder Brothers, 

Whose fires have now gone out. 


63 


GOD’S BEAUTY ENTHRONED 

God’s beauty 
Is enthroned; 

And all the beauty 
Of a star 

Is woven in a flower. 

—A little flower. 


64 


THE MIRROR OF HELL. 


At the end of an unusually successful day 

The Master of the House 

Had come in early from the club. 

And as he was staying in to dinner 
He felt no need for haste; 

So drew his chair up to the fire 
And fell to musing 
On talk at the club. 

His old college chum 

Had been there with his son, Merton, 

Only a year now out of college. 

And they had fallen to talking 
Of various things— 

Of his brilliant prospects. 

And in the course of conversation 
Referred to various things 
Aside from a man's business life. 

And young Merton 
In passing remark, 

Referred to his latest conquest 
And dismissed it, 

Even as they two had done 
A score of years before. 

And the Master of the House 
Fell to musing on the ease 
With which a young man 
Dismisses things from his life 
—Just passing things. 


65 


The Mirror of Hell 


He started up. 

The mirror above the mantle 
Seemed nearer. 

He reviewed the fact 
That it had been placed 
To lend distance to the room. 

Now distance 

Came to meet him from it 

And a strange country 

That he had never glimpsed before, 

Tho’ he had been a great traveler. 

The room was no longer around him. 

And he found himself a traveler 
In this different country 
Where was so little definiteness 
And so vast a vagueness. 

At first he was aware 
Of no one else but himself. 

As time passed and his footsteps 
Wandered on, 

For he had no inclination to pause 
In this vast plain of grayness, 

He began to feel the presence of other beings 
Certainly not like himself, 

Yet keeping ever near him. 

At first he saw them only 
As small walking gray clouds. 


66 



The Mirror of Hell 

As his sight became keener 

And a little accustomed to the grayness 

He began to perceive 

That he was not alone 

And wondered 

Who those other travelers were. 

Tho’ they seemed to him 
A countless throng, 

Yet he had only seen 
A few wandering groups. 

And there were times 
When he saw nothing 
But the stretch of grayness. 

And some way he felt depressed 
And would have been glad to talk 
With someone 
Of the numberless shadows. 

But they flitted past him, 

Seemingly not caring for his company. 

And he wished for mountains 
Or a hill 

That would break 

The dreary stretch of grayness, 

But a voice came from the shuffling sands, 
Weird he thought it. 

And no rest 

Nor encouragement it gave him on hearing 
That this was a country of no hills 


67 


The Mirror of Hell 

But one vast stretching plain 
That was like a desert 
With a field at its edge. 

Being a new-comer 

He was near the edge 

And he walked to see the field— 

Small indeed in comparison 
With that vast stretch of plain. 

He found the field was ripe to harvesting 
But there was a little blight 
On the talking wheat. 

A little relieved 

From the monotony of the plain 
He paused to examine the heads of wheat 
And was a little surprised 
At finding not one perfect head; 

Each seemingly affected 
By those around it. 

But there was a little rustle 
In the wheat 

Like when the wind passes over 
In early August. 

And he heard 

A multitudinous whispering. 

'‘We are the field of thy conscience.” 

Then the sight of the man 
Became more clear 


68 


The Mirror of Hell 

And he listened 
While the wheat field 
Sang on of the Passing, 
Of the Passing of Things. 


Everywhere he walked he heard them, 
While to and fro passed the Wanderers 
Whose presence he had 
But dimly been feeling. 

And lifting up his eyes he saw again 
The vast stretching of the plain 
And all around him 
A weariness 

That came in upon his loneliness, 
Causing him to feel more depressed. 


And he was gloomily impressed 
By all these wanderers. 

At last 

Finding no path 

But that which led him back 

Upon the old paths again, 

He asked a passing shadow 
Where was the king of this dominion, 

And the shadow followed after him. 

While a gray bird 

From the borderland replied, 

“He could not bear up under the loneliness, 


69 


The Mirror of Hell 

So he went out to invite visitors 
To come to his realm; 

But he never returns 
To find out how they fare 
Where all things are lone 
And the voice of the land 
A wind moan, 

An uprising from the sand 
And under the wing 
Of all shadow birds.” 

And the man listened again 

And heard this moan 

That rode on the wind 

And was not as a thing crying out 

For its own pain 

But as the crying 

Of one who sees 

A Beloved One to be suffering. 

In time the sound smote upon him 
Until he felt 

That it would be comforting 
To bury oneself 
There in this sand— 

At least it would shut out the loneliness 
And the gray waste of weariness 
That was like an aching void 
In some one's heart. 


The Mirror of Hell 

But on investigation 

He found that there was not enough sand 
To cover one up. 

And low everywhere was 
The cry on the wind 
Until he felt that he 
Could bear it no longer 
And so, came to face his own, 

Alone! ALONE! 

They came by him 
And near unto him 
Until he asked at last 
Who they were 

That they should seek him out. 

And some there were 
Who looked into his eyes 
And answered very gently, 

“We are the things of thy life 
That thou hast led to Hell, 

For we go where thou goest 
And we came in with thee.” 

And he saw there before him— 

His Faiths and Hopes, 

His Desires and his Successes, 

His Conquests, Moods and Vanities, 

His Fears and Little Failures, 

His Honesties and Prides 
And his Morning Thoughts, 


71 


The Mirror of Hell 

His Freedoms and his Midnight Reveries, 

Those veiled sadnesses 

That haunt the caverns of the mind, 

And all the velvet-footed Wanderers 
From his heart’s room of Oblivion. 

Here Forgetfulness walked before them 
Bringing all the little things 
In her train 

And in the wake of their footsteps came 
The haunted shoes of the Crippled Souls, 
And the hovering sound of groping wings— 
Sad lonely birds— 

All the Forgotten Things 
That whir about her head. 

These—he thought them dead. 

Back early in his life 

“Give me thy heart,” the Morning had said. 
“Give me thy soul,” called the Twilight. 
The man had heard both, 

But he had listened with his two ears 
And turning, had followed after 
A phantom of gay laughter 
Passing with the wind. 

Noon, looking down, had sent 
A bell call to his heart. 

And mentioning the matter next day 
He had remarked, “It will pass.” 


72 


The Mirror of Hell 

Now he beheld the passing 
That was a pressing dumbness 
On the high chest of him. 

Nowhere among them 

Did he see the Family Honor, 

Yet wearing her graceful robes 
Before the inhabitants of his world; 

But here a little aside from the path 
He beheld a low mound 
Where she had been 
Long entombed in Hell . 

And there passed 

The Bright Promises of his Youth 
On their weary pilgrimage 
To Mecca. 

By the wayside 

The Little Varieties of his Life 
Were letting the sand 
Fall through their fingers; 

Looking, 

Always looking for something— 

And many things followed after them 
Saying, 

“We buy with a little gay laughter 
Long moments of a man’s future peace.” 
And the Hill Winds of his soul 
Went shuffling in the sands. 


73 


The Mirror of Hell 

And the Wish of his Heart was there 
In poverty he saw her; 

For that which made him to desire her 
She no longer was— 

Only a Phantom. 

His Affectations were a various group, 
Clapping their hands 
And brushing the sand from their feet. 
Their constant presence annoyed him— 
And everywhere his Little Vanities, 
Clothed in poverty, 

And all the words 
That they had been praised with 
Were there—looking wide-eyed 
At one another. 

And his Charity passed him by, 
Wearing her vanity scarf 
And her plume of pride 
Drooped in a graceful manner; 

But her feet were bare 

And she found the sands painful. 

All his Uprightnesses were there— 
Some were humped-back, 

And one had a crooked shoulder. 

His Little Honesties marched by 
With necklaces of Pride’s! beads. 


The Mirror of Hell 

She always bestowed them frequently 
For he was a very honest man. 

But the Little Honesties paused frequently 
Because they had no sandals to wear; 

And they forgot the measure 
Of the comforting beads 
Pride had given them, 

Which beads their Master on earth 
So cherished. 

They did not recognize him here, 

For they had not been intimate 
With his soul. 

Among the others passing, 

Heedlessness went by 
And there was crying 
In her mantle 
Of little hurt things— 

Grief in their loneliness 

Of the things he had not had time for. 

And whichever way he turned, 

He met the empty stretching hands 
Of his Mother's Desire for him. 

And there were dim longings 
That were a gentle moan on the wind. 

Also, among the countless legions marching, 
There were many little beautiful things; 


75 


The Mirror of Hell 

But he was looking 

For the Great Things of his life 

And did not see 

These little commonplace things 
That his thoughtfulness 
Had made beautiful. 

They were so small 

That his own eyes perceived them not. 

Only Faith's pained face 

Had a gentle sadness 

For that this man 

Had come to blindness 

Of the beauty of little things; 

And the sands sang on, 

“These little things 

Are what make a man’s life, 

Great Things 
Are lost in them.” 

But yet he sought 

For the one Great Good Thing of his life. 
And everywhere there were only sands— 
Little grains of sand. 

And Pity’s birds were there 
—All voiceless, 

With wing flutters 

That were like a chained wind 


76 


The Mirror of Hell 

Where the Work of His Life 

Sat sobbing alone 

And empty the loom before her. 

With all his force he strove 
To push the mirror away from him 
And was startled— 

The mirror had broken. 

He had trembled at the crash, 
Shuddered a little 
And dropped his head. 

Ten minutes later 
Someone bringing in 
The evening newspaper 
Noticed his head bowed, 

And stepping softly, 

Laid the paper by, 

Saying, “He is asleep.” 

But the night wind passing 
Breathed, “He is dead.” 

And that night, within an hour 
He was become not in a dream 
But in the very truth of things, 

A lonely wanderer on the fields of Hell. 
It was dusk on the air-sea of Memory 
And many little Waves of the past 
Flowed 'round him 
And were become one— 


77 


The Mirror of Hell 

A tidal wave on the shores 
Of his heart’s country. 

And dumb he walked with a void aching 

And everywhere the wandering sadness 

Of things who had lost their way— 

With the drawn sigh from the sands 

That shifting moved 

And uncovered other voices 

Of little things 

To him a remembering 

Of some things 

He would he could forget. 

These came early to meet him, saying, 

“We are thy mind’s weariness, 

We are thy soul’s dreariness. 

We, the Children of Thy Scarlet Desire.” 
And they never left him alone 
Nor was he without the consciousness 
Of their companionship, 

Whose greeting was to him 
But an old fear become certain 
As they came to walk beside him, 

These, the Children of his Scarlet Desire. 
Here they had not the flame of his fire 
And none wore the mantle of red. 

The poverty of their raiment 
Was the dullness of its grayness 
That ever was a hurting to the eyes 


78 


The Mirror of Hell 

Frequently he dropped his own 
Because he dared not yet look into theirs. 
So they went on to-gether. 

And there was, in passing, 

A crying on the wind 

Like a lost thing that is become blind 

And cannot find its way alone. 

While about and above 

Was only the endless 

Non-silvered and unvelveted gray— 

Cold with the coldness of dead stars 
As had been his heart 
Those latter years. 

And near him, many Joys 
Walked with dim seeing 
For the way of their going 
To lonely hearts 
Had been swept away by him 
After this manner: 

All the things he had meant to do 

While waiting 

Had brushed back and forth 

Restlessly with their little brooms 

Until the Waypaths were become covered 

And the joys could not find 

Where to walk. 


79 


The Mirror of Hell 

Only shadow birds of loneliness 
Flew over where had been 
The pathways of Joy. 

And following after the dim Joys 
His Freedoms walked here chained, 
With faces like drawn sheets 
From the pain in their ankles. 

Not far off the Fears 
Marched in a circle 
And ever they were lonely 
For they are shadow people, 

Even to one another, 

Caught by the wind, 

And whirled a little way 
And brought back again 
To shepherd the soul of him 
Whose fears they have been on earth. 

And this man could not get away 
From the sound of his Freedoms 
Incessantly clapping their hollow hands 
To forget the pain in their ankles. 

And the Ways walked 
With lagging footsteps 
And despite their blindness 
They ever kept near him. 


The Mirror of Hell 

But here they followed, 

There they had led— 

They, who were 
All the various Ways 
In which he had sought 
To satisfy his restlessness — 

Not knowing nor ever glimpsing 
This to be that ancient yearning 
Born in man’s heart 
When God began 
The Symphony of the Universe. 

The stars travel on their way, 

Man is a little restless; 

The Symphony plays on 

Only he does not hear its andante. 

And this man meeting 
The things of his life there 
On the gray plains of Hell 

Beheld the Hours of His Nights 
More than other things, drearily alone 
For these are not allowed 
Even thoughts for company; 

None but the shadow legions of fears 
That rise up and chant 
The marshal song of years— 


81 


The Mirror of Hell 

That was what struck courage 
From his heart. 

Then it was he deeply longed 
For sympathy— 

Felt that it would lessen 

His own void feeling 

If he could see others feeling likewise, 

At least they would be 
Brothers in Hell. 

At this time the shadow bird 
From Helhs borderland 
Passing, said, 

“Not one looks upon 
The face of another 
In the lone place of Hell. 

He has only the things 
Of his own life for company; 

The lonely Hopes that waited 
On his soul’s altar fire 
When he dwelt 
On the earth planet yonder. 

And their suffering in hell 
Is more keen than his own; 

Subservient to his desire on earth 
They are enfolded in his suffering in Hell 


82 


The Mirror of Hell 

And so it is with the little Faiths 
Whose cold moans rise 
Like ethereal smoke, 

But dust of the slain, 

To the feet of God’s throne 
And lessen the joy of the Violets 
That grow in the Garden; 

For what hath gone 
Out from the Garden 
Always yet is a part 
Of the host of the garden, 

Tho’ it walk 

In the grayness of Hell.” 

The Days of his life went by 

But they ever turned in their marching 

And came again to meet him. 

And there were Old Sins 

That were the deathing of Little Hopes. 

These lay like rows and rows of mile posts. 

And his Peace of Mind 

Walked in dire poverty. 

Also the Soul of his Honesty 
Walked near him, yet unseen. 

With steady step 
And sad eyes 
He followed the steps 


83 


The Mirror of Hell 

Of this honest man in Hell, 

Who had been honest with men; 

But who had put off until another day 

To face with Honesty his Soul 

And little Faiths 

And the Years kept Waiting. 

And his Mother’s Peace walked there 
In majesty, 

But the wistfulness of her face 
Was one of Sorrow’s keenest arrows. 

And all the Words 
That he had ever said 
Were there, 

A sad gray marching host, 

And some of strong determination 
Drew the wan-faced ones 
Toward the Dream of his Desire 
Where she sat in a great chair 
Blind, twirling her fingers 

And all the Little Things of his life 
He saw them differently. 

Their little disguises 
No longer they wore; 

But there was 
A haunting in their eyes 
And all reminded him 


84 


The Mirror of Hell 

Of things he would he could forget. 

These latter were 
A numberless army disorganized. 

And not up to their shoulders standing 
Were many good things of his life, 

Lost in this numberless crowd. 

Here and there, 

Sauntered the Little Silences 

When his heart had sometimes kept still. 

They carried a gentleness 
In their mantles 
Because they knew, 

What he knew not, 

Of the strength that is born 
When a man listens 
To the silences of his heart. 

They would have gone on, 

But their way 

Was by the road of his going. 

As he walks he is not aware 
How tall they rise 
Nor how well they bear their sorrow 
For they have forgotten it— 

But there is a brooding in the air, 

The weighted feeling of care. 


85 


The Mirror of Hell 

They bear the burden 
Of his suffering; 

They know his loneliness 
And the emptiness 
Of his heart’s room. 

THERE IS NO HATE IN HELL 

And few cry out 

For their own suffering 

But for the loneliness of him 

Who has gone far 

From the road of his destiny— 

Who has brought to ashes, fine volcanic 
ashes, 

The high white song flame 
That was for a torch given 
To light his own pathway 
And that of those who come after; 

But, being brought to ashes, 

Is become a blinding dust 

In the eyes of those who come after. 

A little way off, 

Yet never before his eyes, 

Walked the tall fair vieled one— 

His Soul’s Guardian, 

Whose steps he had drawn to Hell 
In his own going. 

At the gates she was veiled 
With seven fold veiling. 


The Mirror of Hell 

And this was not the first 
For he had veiled her three fold 
Early in his days. 

From his sight 
He had first veiled her face 
When by choice he went to meet 
Those who afterwards became 
The velvet footed Wanderers 
In his heart's room of Oblivion. 

So he began her exile— 

The tall fair vieled one, 

His Soul's Guardian; 

She of the radiant face, 

Who walks with majesty 
And fourfold grace; 

Whose heart's garden 
Is the resting place 
Of man's restlessness, 

Where all his little fears 
And ancient yearnings 
Are interwoven 
In the loom of years. 

And it is sometimes given 
That a man may see 
This heart garden 
Of his Soul's fair Guardian 
In the eyes of his wife, 


87 


The Mirror of Hell 

And the waves of his restlessness 
Come to their shoring 
In the arms of his wife; 

For the mantle 
Of his Soul's Fair Guardian 
With the majesty of its bearing 
Falls on the Wife's Shoulders, 

When she has come to wearing it. 

This may be. 

It is the desire 

Of the Keeper of the White Fire, 

Upon whose face 

Neither man nor woman has ever looked, 

It being only known to the stately lilies 
Who veil his altar screen, 

Back of which the Elder Brothers of the 
Pleiades 

Make white wings for man's desire; 

Which he tramples into dust 
That whirls aloft. 

And in its eddying 

Makes blind his eyes 

To all hills and planes 

But the gray plains of Hell 

That are become for him a haunted desert 

And a waste of weariness 

Where monotonous echoes have wings 

And are always beside one. 


88 


The Mirror of Hell 

As this man wandered 
With the years and the days 
And the things of his life 
On these gray plains of Hell 
There was no one to tell him, 
And no one ever would, 

Of the things that grow 
In God’s Garden— 

Among them the fairest being 
The White Iris and Lilies 
And the little blue flowers 
Of the Speedwell infinitesimal— 
All bom of the flame 
Of a man’s suffering 
When his soul is come to faith 
Through the grayness of Hell. 

There is no fire in HELL— 
Only a YEARNING. 

That is the flame 

That eats out the dross 

Of man’s desire 

In his gray loneliness of soul 

That is the living fire 

That brings him back again 

TO FAITH. 


89 


Faith waits with his blue-fire sword 
Beside the gates of time; 

Many of Sorrows fairest flowers 
Bloom in his garden, 

While he waits 

By the outgoing gates of Hell 

That are very near 

The ingoing gates 

Of God's Garden. 


THE MIRROR OF HELL 
EPILOGUE 


There are two gates in a man’s home, 
And two gates in front of his door. 

The key to the four 
He holds every day. 

Only with time he forgets some things 
And the old ways of Beauty 
That lead a man’s soul to duty 
With a sun in her heart 
And a sword in her hand. 

It is his forgetting 
That makes heaven seem 
So far away 
From his home here. 

It is his forgetting 

That brings hell so near 

And he opens and closes 

The outgoing and incoming gates 

At will, 

Until 

The gates become rusty on the hinges 
And the things he would put behind him 
Persist in going before 
And lead 

With different happy faces 


91 


And gay laughter 
To the grayness of Hell 
And the gates that have 
The notes of a symphony 
Painted on them. 

Alone when he is in does he see 
It’s only andante, a weary moan 
Of a smothered hope 
Crying on the wind 
For what it might have been 
In Man's home. 

For the beginning of things 
And the ending of all things 
Is Home— 

Be it within four walls here, 

Woman the keeper of its vigil fire; 

Or be it a home in the heart of God's love 
That is also here. 

Having found these— 

With the two to-gether 

Kept fire-guarded 

In her heart and his own— 

Man loses the key to hell. 


92 


EVEN NOW. 

Even of the present time, 

Now, 

If the swords of Time should speak— 
They speak if we would but listen, 

With quiet strength of spears they say, 

“This being little at home 

Is the deathing 

Of many world hopes 

And the snuffing out 

Of many lights 

On the altar of Beauty!” 

“This being little at home 

Makes a great difference in Heaven,” 

Said the Demure Little Violet, 

Who blooms by God's throne. 

“Daily to the gates there come 
Many little hands knocking. 

When Saint Peter says, ‘Who comes?' 
They answer: 

‘We are the Joys come back from earth 
To the Garden— 

There is no room for us 
Because of their being 
So little at home.' 

And so Heaven is overcrowded 
With these Children of Joy 
And Peace of Mind; 

For they have grown in number 
As was God's plan 


93 


With the growing in number of Man. 
And now God has had to set apart 
One whole field in Heaven 
For the little Courages 
That he had sent to earth 
—These having returned also; 

Not even having found perches, 

Those latter being occupied 
By man's desires 
For accessories 
And variety.” 

And every morning all these children 
Of Courage, Joy, and Peace of Mind 
Flock to the edge of the Garden 
Where they peek over the wall at earth 
To see if yet they are wanted there. 
They wait with eagerness 
To return.” 

‘Tor they are the Little Loves 
Of a Man's Soul.” 

Added the Demure Little Violet, 

Whose sayings in Heaven 
Were liked by the Dandelions 
And were told by them 
Wherever their seeds flew. 

So the Author learned 
From a Dandelion 
Of the above attitude in Heaven 
Towards this being little at home. 


94 


MEMORY’S BLUE FLOWER 


“For I take with me this hour,” said Memory, 
“The dream of Man’s heart— 

That he, looking back into the past, 

May find there a little blue flower.” 

The End. 


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